


Spiral

by verity



Series: Venn Diagram [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Genderswap, Grief/Mourning, Pack Feels, Queer Youth, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Darcy Hale came into the Stilinski house through the front door—she was there to talk with Stiles's dad, to do damage control, probably, now that Stiles had come clean and sent everyone in the pack panicked late-night text messages—the first time, she paused just inside and stared at one of the pictures on the wall. It was Stiles with her mom, standing in front of their Christmas tree, from right after they found out her mom was sick. "Who's that?" Darcy said.<br/> </p><p>(cis f!Stiles/cis f!Derek, with bonus cis f!Boyd)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** brief mention of suicidal ideation, one or two uses of ableist language, brief mention of torture/violence against women.
> 
> Thanks and much love to **clio_jlh** & **sophia_sol**.
> 
> (This deviates from canon in a few places; I handwave because, you know, AU.)

The wolf-girl under the wolfsbane was curled up like she was sleeping; the wound at her throat had disappeared from view, concealed under the dark hair trailing over her shoulders. Stiles was still holding the end of the rope she'd pulled out of the ground.

"It's Laura," Stiles said, or heard the words come out of her mouth, anyway. "Laura Hale."

"Whoa," Scott said.

They stood there for a while, watching Laura rest.

—

Stiles was ten when the Hale house burned. She remembered it like she remembered everything that happened that year, at a hazy remove that would give way to vivid detail if pushed. Usually, Stiles's body remembered for her, like when she was wrapping Lydia's birthday presents and saw her mother's hands making the same motions, showing her how to make neat folds, tuck the paper in at the ends. She bought Lydia three books, two pairs of earrings, and a DVD; she was learning how to be subtle.

Darcy climbed through her window while Stiles was still looking at her hands, although she had moved past the intent staring to curling the ends of the ribbon. Stiles was fucking great at wrapping presents. She'd been doing her own at Christmas for years, after all.

"She's just going to throw that stuff away after she opens it," Darcy said, looming over Stiles's desk. 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole."

"I meant the paper," Darcy said. Stiles didn't have to turn around to know that Darcy was frowning: Darcy had two main expressions, bitchface and Edward Cullen.

"Did you break in for a reason, or are you just here to admire the scenery?" Stiles said.

"You left the window open."

"It could have been for Scott," Stiles said. "It could have been for Boyd. I have her Biology textbook."

"Yeah, she said to pony up," Darcy said. "Scott always uses the door. You're the one with the window problem."

Stiles spun around in her chair. "In my defense, I watched _Clarissa Explains It All_ at an impressionable age. You should be glad I didn't get into Pearl Jam."

Laura had liked Pearl Jam. She was the one who'd shown _Clarissa Explains It All_ to Stiles, the whole series taped on VHS in EP mode so the quality was crap and they had to fast-forward through ten year old commercials. Stiles was only allowed to watch PBS and National Geographic documentaries, so Nickelodeon and the popcorn they made on the stove had an illicit thrill. 

"You do have a flannel problem," Darcy said, which was totally not relevant to the topic at hand, namely, windows and the misuse thereof.

"Are you here to insult my wardrobe or shoot down my sassy quippage? Because I have gifts to wrap here, and Wikipedia articles to edit, and, oh yeah, a hot date with World of Warcraft."

Darcy slouched against the windowsill, leather jacket sliding on her shoulders. Her pixie cut was growing out, curling over her ears and against the back of her neck, and she was wearing the pair of jeans that had the knees torn out. Stiles didn't know how Darcy managed to make skinned knees hot, probably the super werewolf healing or something. It had taken Stiles's palms a week to heal, a night for them to even scab over.

"It's about Jackson," Darcy said.

"Keep me up past my bedtime, why don't you," Stiles said, like she ever went to bed before midnight.

—

"I just feel weird about it," Scott said for the nine hundredth time. They were eating in front of the TV in Scott's living room, working through his DVR backlog of Giants games and _NCIS_.

"It's the whole dyke biker gang thing, I get it," Stiles said. She was drawing on her arm with a Sharpie, which was probably going to give her marker cancer, but she hung out with werewolves, so.

Scott's slice of pizza paused midway in its trajectory toward his mouth. "Stiles! That's a bad word!"

"Yeah, yeah," she said.

"Isaac's a guy," Scott said. "And they don't have motorcycles."

"It's not like you need them," Stiles pointed out. She put down the Sharpie and took the last slice of pepperoni.

"They're really cool, though," Scott said wistfully. His attention was drifting away from the pizza and back toward the Giants.

"Darcy's pack?"

"Motorcycles," Scott said. "I'm kind of afraid of Erica."

Stiles had kissed Erica once, or Erica had kissed her, right after the werewolf bite had turned her all Sandy from Grease with sewn-on pants and self-confidence. It was over before Stiles had known how to respond. She thought about it a lot. "Me too," she said.

Then they watched another away game and drank four liters of Mountain Dew.

—

It took a while for Stiles to figure it out, even though she'd spent years hoping Lydia would notice her and seen every Angelia Jolie movie below an R rating in theaters multiple times; everyone was gay for Angelina Jolie, or straight or something. The summer she was fifteen, she had a really awkward conversation with her dad about Lydia, and the next morning she woke up to find a letter next to her pillow. It started out _Dear Slawa_ , and continued for a page and a half in her mother's neat cursive. Stiles read the first line and then she put it in her desk drawer for later. It wasn't later yet.

One night she came home to find Darcy sitting at her desk, reading the letter.

"Put that back," Stiles said.

"What is this?" Darcy said, looking up. It was like she hadn't noticed Stiles come in at all, even though Stiles had made plenty of noise stomping around the kitchen and putting a frozen dinner in the microwave.

"It's a letter from my mom. _Put it back_ ," she said, backing away until her knees hit the bed and she sat down hard. Her heart was thudding in her chest, it was like she couldn't breathe, but she could, she could, she just had to remember. Start small, one breath at a time.

"I'm sorry." Darcy's face did something weird, but Stiles wasn't paying that much attention. "I was looking for—"

"Don't tell me what's in it." Stiles was breathing in and out slowly, count to ten, easy does it. "Please."

"You haven't read it?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Stiles said. "Put it back. Go away."

"Okay," Darcy said. Surprisingly enough, she did.

Stiles sat on her bed for a while, looking at the place where Darcy had been sitting, the space that was created by her absence. It was weird to think of Darcy like that.

—

"Why did you plant wolfsbane where you buried Laura?" Stiles asked. She'd been treading water for an hour and a half and she was getting kind of loopy, and Darcy had stopped talking, and she needed a distraction, because _oh God they were going to die_ except she really hoped not, she didn't want to die, she didn't want Darcy to die, she wasn't ready. "Were you—"

Darcy huffed against Stiles's neck. Her hot breath felt good. "I wasn't trying to hide her body."

"Wolfsbane," Stiles said. "It just seems weird."

"She was a wolf," Darcy said. "That's how she wanted it."

"Do you always bury werewolves like that?"

"We're not going to die."

Stiles tilted back her head, trying to keep her chin above the water. "I just wanted to know. I wondered why you'd do that to her."

"For her," Darcy corrected. "Why do you care?"

"Laura was nice," Stiles said. "I knew her."

"You did?"

"Yeah." Stiles shifted her arms around Darcy, hitched them higher up under Darcy's arms. "She used to be my babysitter."

—

Laura used to braid Stiles's hair, put it into neat French braids while they sat in front of the TV. When Stiles's mother took her braids out the next morning, ran her fingers through Stiles's hair, it fell in loose waves down to her shoulders. That was when Stiles still wore her hair down sometimes instead of back in a ponytail, pulled high to keep her hair out of her face. She thought about buzzing it all off sometimes, but she never got around to it.

Stiles didn't go to the memorial service after the Hale house burned. Stiles's dad did, but she stayed home with her mom and curled up in bed with her and put her head on the pillow next to her mom's. It was a Sunday afternoon and they listened to _Prairie Home Companion_ on NPR. Stiles wanted to curl up in her mom's lap, but her mom was so small now, smaller than Stiles almost. Stiles hated it. It made her want to die, too; she didn't tell anyone.

"Don't leave," she said to her mom. "Please." They hadn't told her, but Stiles wasn't stupid, she knew what was going on.

"I don't want to," her mom said.

"I don't want you to be sick anymore," Stiles said. "I want you to get better, I want you to—"

"I know, baby," her mom said, stroking Stiles's hair.

—

Stiles didn't have a lot of friends growing up, just Scott, mostly. Instead, she read a lot of books. Her mother was a children's librarian at the town library, and there were always books in their house, the full _World Book Encyclopedia_ in Stiles's bedroom, a basket of library books at the foot of her bed. Stiles had a hard time focusing in school, but she could concentrate on what she was interested in: she was always getting busted in class for reading the _Hardy Boys_ or a history of the Romanov family or something.

When Stiles was twelve, her dad got her a laptop. She packed up the encyclopedia and put it in the attic; it was pretty outdated. Her dad didn't say anything, although she saw him looking at the empty shelf where the set had been the next day. She filled it up with D&D rulebooks and textbooks until it didn't look as empty. After that, she used Wikipedia and read lots of pirated ebooks; she didn't go to the library much anymore.

Since Scott had gotten all werewolfy, Stiles was reading actual books a lot more often. She also had a lot more friends.

"You want some help getting dolled up for Lydia's party?" Jezebel asked. They were in Starbucks, getting coffee, and Jezebel was still in her work clothes, button-up open at the neck and easy care khakis. Stiles knew Jezebel had another name, but she'd never asked what it was.

"Nah," Stiles said. "I don't really—dress up. You know."

Jezebel nodded, leaned over to pat her hand. "Baby, I sure do."

"Do you want to know my real name?" Stiles said, after a moment. It had been a long time since she'd told anyone. People either knew and trotted it out to make fun of her, or at least pretended they'd forgotten. Scott still called her "W-lady" sometimes when she was feeling down, or when he was ditching her to hang out with Allison; he wasn't as dumb as he acted most of the time.

"Isn't it Stiles?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. She grinned. "But I'd tell you the other one, if you wanted to know."

"Noted," Jezebel said, smiling back.

Evil hallucinations and all, Lydia's party wasn't so bad when Stiles had her friends.

—

The pack weren't friends, exactly; they were family. Stiles hadn't grown up with anyone except her parents, so she wasn't really prepared for the squabbling or the people who seemed to tolerate her but sometimes acted like they liked her anyway. Lydia and Allison never invited her to their slumber parties (sometimes they invited Danny), even after the intense bonding experience that was being tortured by an insane trio of alphas for two days in a filthy basement with stale air so thick that by the end of it Stiles couldn't breathe without tasting iron. Breathing through her mouth barely helped when her nose was clogged with congealed blood. She'd splinted Allison's broken arm with a metal pipe and fabric from her own tank top; she'd held Lydia's hand when she cried on Stiles's shoulder.

For the next week, they slept together in Allison's parents' bed every night, Allison's arm supported by a pillow, Lydia spooned between her and Stiles. Lydia and Allison still never invited her to their slumber parties, but Stiles didn't mind as much.

She slipped into being friends with Isaac by accident; she started out helping him with his English homework and then history and then chemistry. One afternoon they lazed around on the couch in Isaac's living room, heads pillowed on the armrests at each end and legs tangled together, talking about _Hey Arnold!_ and _Doug_ and going to the local swimming hole when they were kids. Darcy came in at one point and stared at them; Erica flopped into the recliner when _Project Runway_ was on and provided running commentary. When Stiles went home, she went straight to bed and dreamed that she and Isaac ran their own pizza parlor and Boyd was their accountant and Erica waitressed. She told Isaac about it the next morning before class; he smiled at her, shy for a moment, and then they fistbumped.

Jackson mostly didn't make fun of her for being the only girl on the lacrosse team and Danny was teaching her PHP, so that was progress. Scott was Scott. Boyd slapped Stiles on the back when she saved their lives sometimes.

Things with Darcy never really got unweird, but that was okay. They had this thing where Stiles challenged her authority a lot and was right at least two thirds of the time and got shot down half the time anyway, and Darcy shoved Stiles into walls and hung out in her room and got way too deep in her personal space; it was a thing. A consistent thing. Stiles found it kind of comforting sometimes.

—

"I need to stay here," Darcy said, climbing through Stiles's window. Stiles cracked her eyelids open and caught a glimpse of the clock on her bedside table: 2.30 AM. On a school night. Awesome. Not unusual since they'd started dealing with the alpha pack creeping on their territory, though.

"I have to get up in four hours." Stiles rolled over, squinted, and saw Darcy close the window and lock it, then press a hand to her side. There was a dark patch on the shirt underneath Darcy's jacket. "Are you _bleeding_?"

"Not anymore." Darcy took off her jacket and hung it on the back of Stiles's chair, gingerly peeled her shirt off. There was blood crusted around the wound just below her ribs, but it looked like it had closed over. "I can't be out like this, smelling like this, while they're out there. You know that."

"There's clean shirts in the second drawer down," Stiles said.

"Fine," Darcy said.

Stiles closed her eyes and rolled back on her side, but she could still hear Darcy taking off her sports bra, pulling one of Stiles's shirts over her head. They were about the same height, but Darcy was muscled and busty where Stiles was weedy and almost flat-chested. It was probably better if Stiles wasn't checking out her rack, that was all.

"This shirt doesn't fit," Darcy said.

"Try the top drawer, that's pajamas."

"Jesus Christ, _Tinkerbell_?"

"It was a Christmas present from Scott's mom," Stiles said defensively.

"Right," Darcy said grimly.

After a really long minute, Stiles's mattress creaked and dipped behind her. Darcy laid down beside her, rigid, carefully not touching Stiles, even though Stiles could feel Darcy radiating heat like two millimeters from her spine; the bed wasn't all that big. Stiles was still half asleep and whatever brain-to-mouth filter she had was off-duty, so she said, "I'm not going to give you gay cooties."

"Um," Darcy said.

Stiles had never actually said it before, even though everyone knew, or she thought everyone did. Probably she'd be freaked out in the morning, but she was too tired now. "Go to sleep."

Darcy didn't say anything, but she did turn on her side and throw her arm around Stiles's middle. Stiles hadn't slept with anybody like that since she was little, since her mom would hold her while they took naps. She was too tired to think about her mom, so she focused on Darcy snug behind her, and then she was asleep.

—

The first time Darcy came into the Stilinski house through the front door—she was there to talk with Stiles's dad, to do damage control, probably, now that Stiles had come clean and sent everyone in the pack panicked late-night text messages—the first time, she paused just inside and stared at one of the pictures on the wall. It was Stiles with her mom, standing in front of their Christmas tree, from right after they found out her mom was sick. "Who's that?" Darcy said.

"It's my mom," Stiles told her. "My mom and I."

A few nights later, they were in Stiles's jeep, driving out toward the edge of town when Darcy said, "Tell me about your mother. What was her name?"

Stiles tightened her grip on the wheel. "Carol," she said. "Carol Sutter. She was a librarian, she worked at the big library downtown. Why?"

"I was curious."

"I don't want to talk about her," Stiles said. "She's dead."

"I know," Darcy said.

That was the night that Stiles and Lydia and Allison got captured by the alphas, and Stiles forgot all about that conversation for a while. She didn't want to think about her mom when bad things were happening. If there was any kind of heaven, Stiles hoped it told her mom happy lies.

—

The morning of her senior year of high school, her dad made breakfast for Stiles: pancakes and turkey sausage and scrambled eggs with green onions and mushrooms and cheddar cheese, just the way she liked them. When she sat down at the table, there was the familiar envelope in front of her plate; she didn't open it, just put it to the side.

"Do you read them?" her dad asked, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her.

"No," Stiles said, looking up at him. He was smiling a little bit; he reached down and ruffled her hair.

"That's okay." He sat down opposite her, took a bite of his eggs. "You should, sometime, though."

"Are there a lot left?" She'd never asked him before.

Her dad frowned. "Do you need to know?"

"No," Stiles said. She started cutting up her pancakes.

When she got home, the house was empty; no Darcy, no dad. The box was in the first place she looked, the top of her dad's closet. It was the box her rollerblades had come in, the ones she'd outgrown and given away years ago. On the side, it said in big Sharpie block print, "LETTERS."

Stiles kept the box upright and opened it carefully, took out the letters and stacked them on the bed in neat, clear piles, so she could put them back without her dad knowing. There were about forty letters: some for her and her dad, loose, a few for other people, sealed in envelopes. There was another envelope, opened, that said, simply, "When." She took out the one addressed to Laura Hale and put the rest of the letters back in the box unread. It had been close to the bottom; hopefully her dad wouldn't notice.

The next night she drove out to the Hale house. Stiles wasn't sure why Darcy still lived out there; they'd fixed it up last year with Peter's money and pack labor, plumbing and electricity and walls and everything, but it was still creepy. Peter had his own apartment, and Erica and Boyd lived at Isaac's place closer to town. The big house came in handy when they had the whole pack together, but Stiles couldn't imagine rattling around in a place that haunted by herself.

Darcy's Camaro was parked out front, and she answered the door after a few minutes of insistent bell-ringing in a tank top and painted-on gym shorts and full-on bitchface mode. "What do you want?"

"I—" Okay, this was stupid, Stiles didn't even know why she was doing this. "My mom—before she died, she wrote a bunch of people letters. And I found one for Laura, so—I thought you might want it."

She held out the letter, but Darcy didn't take it.

"You don't have to— I can just put it back where it was, or I can—"

Darcy snatched out of her hand. "I'll take it," she said. Then she stepped back into the house and slammed the door in Stiles's face.

It said a lot about Stiles's experiences with Darcy Hale that she didn't take it personally.

—

" _Wladyslawa?_ " Darcy said, incredulous, squinting at Stiles's driver's license. She made it sound like coleslaw.

Stiles snatched it back, put it back in her wallet where it belonged. " _Wladyslawa_." She stressed the v-sounds. "It was my mom's mom's name."

"Where did you get Stiles from?"

"Why do you care?"

"I'm asking," Darcy said, like that was an answer. She folded her arms.

Stiles leaned forward, against the steering wheel of the Jeep, and stared at Jackson's door again. This stakeout was a bust. He probably wasn't even the kanima anyway. "Scott couldn't pronounce my name when he was little. He came up with it."

"Your dad calls you Stiles," Darcy said.

Stiles shrugged. "It stuck," she said.

She wasn't a Slawa, even though it had been her name all the way through elementary school. It felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Sometimes she felt like the person she'd been before her mom died had died, too, or disappeared. Mostly, though, Stiles felt like Stiles. That was who she was now; it was who she was.

—

A few weeks after she gave the letter to Darcy, Stiles came home from the grocery store to find Darcy stretched out on her bed, fast asleep. Stiles left her alone. She played WoW for an hour and a half before Darcy's voice drifted over from the bed, low and rough. "You didn't wake me up."

"I figured you needed the rest," Stiles said. She wasn't doing much aside from hanging out with her guildies and bitching, so she typed "gotta log" and quit.

"I was going to ask you about Laura," Darcy said. "I want you to tell me about her."

Stiles didn't think of Laura like she was dead, really, even though she'd seen Laura's body. Laura had left for college in New York two years before the fire, and it seemed like she was still away, having her adult life; it was easier to think of her that way than planted under wolfsbane in the ground. Stiles turned around in her chair. "She used to babysit me, when I was in elementary school, when my parents would go out on dates. She played board games with me and we watched TV together. Sometimes she braided my hair. Laura was really good at that. She was nice."

"She used to braid my hair," Darcy said. "It used to be long. She put it in French braids, and she always wanted to put these awful Disney ponytail holders on them, but I wouldn't let her."

"I didn't have any of those," Stiles said.

"She used to read books to me at bedtime. She read me all of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ when I was in third grade."

"She read to me too, sometimes. Whatever my mom was reading me at bedtime."

"She was a good sister," Darcy said.

"Yes," Stiles said, because there wasn't anything else to say to that.

Darcy didn't say anything for a while. She closed her eyes, but it didn't look like she was sleeping.

"Does Laura make us like sisters?" Stiles said.

"No," Darcy said, turning away. Stiles thought Darcy might leave, then; instead, she went back to sleep. Stiles did her homework and logged back onto WoW for a while, but Darcy was still there when she went to bed, so Stiles shoved her over and stole back half the comforter. When she was sleeping, Darcy was warm and soft; it was easy to like her.

—

Stiles wrote a thank-you note to Scott's mom for the Tinkerbell pajamas, even though they were kind of awful. Her mom had drilled the necessity of thank-you notes into Stiles from the time she'd learned how to write, and by now they were automatic, reflexive.

Stiles's handwriting looked nothing like her mothers', except for the way she wrote cursive 'r's; her mother had taught her to write cursive before Stiles had learned it in school. She had learned to make 'r's like 'n's with two little peaks, instead of the style she'd been taught in school, with its 'r's that looked closer to print. Her mother's cursive was tight, practiced; Stiles's was loose, rarely used. Her mother had held Stiles's hand when she was just learning to write, guiding her strokes on the lined paper.

Two weeks after the Hale fire, her mother had started writing the letters. She wrote every morning until she got too tired and had to take a nap, and continued until Stiles's dad came home at dinner. They piled up in a basket by the bed; there were a lot more than forty. Stiles didn't ask, didn't look at them. Her dad sent her to a grief counselor after her mom died, but they didn't talk about it much before. Her dad sat her down at the kitchen table one night, a month before it happened, and said, "Slawa, your mom is dying. She might have to go back to the hospital again, but we're going to try to keep her at home."

"I know," Stiles said. She pulled her feet up onto her chair, wrapped her arms around her knees. "I don't want her to die. Why does she have to die? It's not fair."

"I don't know," her dad said. He got up, came over and put his arms around her. "It's not fair, honey. I don't want her to die, either. I want her to see you grow up, see the amazing life you're going to have."

Stiles put her face into the crook of her dad's neck, tears already stinging her eyes; she started crying in earnest.

"I won't leave you," he said. "You and me, we're going to be okay. It's going to be tough, but we'll make it."

"I don't want mommy to die," she sobbed.

Her dad held her tightly. "Me either," he said. "I'm so sorry, honey." 

He cried then, too.

—

It was two years to the day after Laura died the first time that Stiles remembered. She was in actual grave, now, buried near the rest of her family. Stiles went to the grocery store after school and got flowers; she didn't know what kind Laura would have liked, so she just got a mix that looked bright and happy, like Laura had been when Stiles knew her.

She wasn't expecting Darcy to be at Laura's grave, although it made sense. Darcy was standing, one hand on the gravestone, looking at the inscription: _Laura Rose Hale, 1985-2011, loving sister and daughter_. It said nothing personal, nothing about Laura's smile or her laugh or how much she'd been loved. Stiles hadn't cried in a long time but she felt tears well up in her eyes, her throat go tight.

"Were you looking for me?" Darcy said, looking up.

Wordless, Stiles held out the flowers. Darcy didn't take them from her, so Stiles knelt down and put them in front of Laura's gravestone. There wasn't any wolfsbane growing out here, in this neatly manicured graveyard; it seemed wrong.

"Your mother wrote us letters." Darcy put a hand on Stiles's shoulder. "I met her when I was four, I saw her every week for years. I remember when she was pregnant with you. She wrote us letters, after the fire. I didn't know she'd died."

"She was dying," Stiles said. "When she wrote those letters, it was the summer before she died. She wrote a lot of them."

"It meant a lot to me," Darcy said.

Stiles never wanted to cry; it made her feel awful and sick, had for years. She put her head against Darcy's leg and cried anyway. It wasn't fair that Laura was dead and her mom was dead and Darcy's family was dead, that they'd been taken from them, that they'd never see Stiles or Darcy grow up or know them, love them, who they were now and who they were going to be. Stiles had never read a single one of her mom's letters because she was afraid they were written to a person who didn't exist anymore.

Darcy got down on her knees and put her arms around Stiles, and Stiles put her head on Darcy's shoulder. She could feel that Darcy's cheek was wet, too, where it brushed against hers. It was a relief, for once, not to say anything or need to, to know that Darcy's thoughts and feelings were the same as her own. 

Darcy turned her head and kissed Stiles's cheek. Her lips were soft and warm.


End file.
